


Turning Points

by Winklepicker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock wash up on an island after escaping Somali pirates. Long-time coming squishy feels happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eggbenedict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggbenedict/gifts).



> This is my gift for eggbenedict in the johnlockgifts exchange on Tumblr.  
> I wish I'd admitted to myself that being on holiday for half of July would impede my ability to write a decent story but I left it too late to give up so I can only apologise for what, to me, is a mediocre effort.  
> I hope you like it, or at least don't hate it. I did my best to try castawaylock but I failed miserably at that too. Huzzah!  
> Also, **Spoiler** Mary has died in this story. This does not at all mean I hate Mary.

‘That was the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done,’ John lay panting on the gravelly shore propped up on his elbows. Cold washes of foam tickled his calves as the water gurgled up his trouser legs.

‘Mm,’ Sherlock was on his back, arms above his head, his face pale with exhaustion. ‘Let’s not be too hasty,’ he murmured, barely raising his voice above the constant sound of waves on the rocky beach.

John gave a short laugh which turned into a hacking cough as he brought up another mouthful of sea water. He had swallowed so much trying to hold on to both the tiny life ring he'd managed to toss into the water and a semi-conscious Sherlock.

‘Next time you want to infiltrate a pirate ship, could we do it somewhere near the Caribbean and not the middle of the bloody Atlantic. Some sun would be nice right now. And some tea. Fuck it, a fire, tea and some dry slippers.’ John grinned, glancing over at Sherlock. His face dropped when he saw the closed eyes and slack features.

‘Hey.’ John scrambled to kneel next to the detective’s head and shook him lightly. ‘Come on, Sherlock. Can you hear me? Open your eyes for me.’ John ran his knuckles hard up and down Sherlock’s breastbone.

A faint but hoarse groan came from the detective’s throat. He cracked his eyes open. 'You couldn't let me shut my eyes for one minute?'

'You've a head wound and you nearly drowned. No I couldn't let you shut your eyes for a minute. Come on, sit up. God knows what you’ve got in your lungs.’ John wedged his arms underneath Sherlock’s and dragged him further up the beach to prop him up against a rocky outcrop.

John ran his fingers into the sodden curls, parting the hair to find the bullet graze he’d hoped would not alert any curious sharks to their presence when they’d abandoned ship. It was shallow, barely a scratch. The bleeding had stemmed long ago, washed clean after hours in salt water. Satisfied, he brushed the hair back down, covering the wound.

He ran his deft fingers over the rest of Sherlock’s skull, finding the raised lump that was the source of his concussion. His fingers ran over the inflamed warmth, pressing gently to feel the solid bone beneath.

Sherlock winced. His sharp intake of breath almost a whistle. Only then did John realise he’d been holding his own breath as he watched Sherlock's eyes come to focus on him in a look of annoyance.

‘Alright?’ John was painfully conscious of his own hands, resting as they were on either side of Sherlock’s face. His right thumb moved on the sharp slope of Sherlock’s cheekbone as John watched on from somewhere outside his own body, recalling things said and done on John's wedding night so many years before.

He watched as a myriad of emotions passed over Sherlock’s face in a matter of seconds. It stopped on deduction-face for perhaps an entire half-second before settling right back into annoyance complete with pout. ‘Ow,’ he said with a gravity unbefitting to the word “ow”.

John puffed a laugh out through his nose, his hands came to rest on Sherlock's shoulders. 'Yeah, I think you'll be fine.' He gave Sherlock a quick pat and grunted his way to his feet.

'So, where do you think we are? Roughly?' John squinted out toward the surf.

'Roughly? I'd say we were on a beach. Somewhere.'

'Thanks genius,' John turned back to scowl over his shoulder but softened at the exhausted look on Sherlock's features. He scratched his shoulder and turned on the spot, surveying their surroundings. There was nothing to be seen without scrambling over the rocky outcrop onto higher ground.

'We need shelter. And a fire if I can get one going.'

'Mm' was the only reply Sherlock made.

'Okay, I'm going to have a quick look around. Do not leave this spot', John pointed sternly at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away.

'I mean it, Sherlock. You've had a knock on the head. God knows what could happen if you go wandering off on your own. Stay here, that's an order.'

Sherlock snapped his head back toward John, studying his face intently.

'Alright...'

'Good, thank y...'

'...Captain,' Sherlock purred, his eyes narrowing.

John's breath hitched. He shook himself, clearing his throat and gave a short nod. 'Right then.'

 

 

..................................................

 

The island was larger than John expected. After scrambling up the rocks on the beach, he'd found himself on a scrubby flatland with plenty of wind-contorted bushes and trees. A handy little thicket proved perfect for shelter from the wind at least. He gathered some soft grasses and made a makeshift floor that would be bearable to sleep on. By the time he was done, the sun was dipping low.

When John got back to the beach he was almost surprised to see Sherlock still sitting near the rocks. He was glad some level of self preservation had won out against the contrariness John had come to expect. The detectives eyes followed his every move.

'You okay?'

'Mm.'

John rolled his eyes, 'Yeah, words are overrated.' He paused, looking Sherlock over. He still looked exhausted and drawn. John brushed a hand across his chin, looking at the rocks. There was no easier way up there he could see.

'I've found some shelter but we're going to have to get you up there,' John pointed, 'Do you think you can make it up or I could...' John stopped as he was submitted to a withering look. He rolled his eyes and laughed. 'Go on then, after you.'

Sherlock craned his neck to look up at the rock above him. He gave a grunt of disgust before heaving himself unsteadily to his feet.

'Are you sure you're okay?'

'For god's sake, John, I'm fine.' Sherlock found a foothold and began a slow climb. As he reached the slight overhang at the top his hands grasped for purchase on tufts of grass but the sandy soil gave way and he wobbled backwards.

John's reflexes were fast and he shot his arms out to steady Sherlock above him.

Moments passed.

'John.'

'Yeah?'

'Thank you, I'm quite balanced now.'

'Oh, good.'

Another moment passed.

'John?'

'Yup.'

'Perhaps you could...'

'Oh, god, sorry.' John pulled his hands away from Sherlock's arse as though he'd been burned. He felt his face grow red. John watched Sherlock's legs disappear over the top. He cleared his throat and started his own climb.

The two made their way toward the bushes John had prepared. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared at the thicket.

'You are joking aren't you?'

'Sorry, The Savoy was booked out. I'm going try a fire.'

'That sounds perfectly safe,' Sherlock sniffed.

'Out here, not in there. Your confidence in me is astounding. Go do something useful,' John shooed him away, 'but stay in sight.'

Sherlock shrugged and wandered off to poke about.

When he ambled back some forty minutes later, he found John kicking the wood he had gathered and yelling obscenities at what appeared to be a broken stick wound around with a shoelace.

'Having fun?' Sherlock asked, his mouth curved up in a half smile.

John spun around and glared daggers. He threw the mess of stick and string down.

'We'll be fine without a fire.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. 'It's cold.'

'It'll be fine.' John gritted his teeth.

'I'm sure it will. No matter that our clothes are still damp.'

'We're not taking our clothes off.'

'Why would we?'

'It'll be fine.'

'Now you're repeating yourself. Are you sure you're quite alright, John?'

John growled.

'Would you like a cuddle?' Sherlock held his arms out, barely suppressing a sarcastic smirk.

'Oh for... I'm going to look for food.' John stalked off back toward the beach, the sun now almost touching the horizon.

He was definitely not thinking about cuddling Sherlock as he searched a rock pool for crabs. And he was most definitely not thinking about Sherlock taking his clothes off as he twisted his feet into the sand looking for shellfish. That way lay madness and complicated gazing.

By the time John returned to the thicket with a few things to eat in his pockets his face was flushed and he was wishing his trousers weren't so thin. He was grateful for the near darkness.

'You took your time.' Sherlock's voice wafted out from the bushes.

'Yeah, well, there was a queue at the till.' John crawled in, he emptied his pockets.

'What the hell are those?'

'Clams. It's all I could find.' John shuffled around in the small space. They sat side by side with legs outstretched.

John tried to open the shells with small sticks, before trying the edge of one of his buttons. Sherlock watched him for a while before rummaging around in his trouser pocket, pulling out his Swiss Army knife and handing it to John. John stared at the knife for a second. 

'Are you kidding me?'

'What?'

'Sherlock, does this have a flint in it?' John could feel the anger rising.

'Of course.'

'And you didn't think to try lighting a fire yourself?'

'You seemed so intent on using your survival training,' Sherlock added helpfully.

John glared at Sherlock. He could barely see him now but he glared all the same. He attacked the clams with the knife, relishing the violence of opening the shells to get at the soft flesh within. He opened a few and thrust one to Sherlock.

'Here.'

'I'm not hungry, you eat it.'

'You have to eat something.'

'No, it's disgusting. I'm tired and I'm cold. Since you've failed to light a fire, you'll have to hold me.'

John inhaled, opening his mouth to protest but laughed instead. 'Smooth, Sherlock. Very smooth.'

'Thank you,' came the almost shy reply.

'Alright,' he shuffled a little to set his back against the trunk of the bush, 'here, lie back.' He pulled Sherlock back to lie against his chest.

Four years ago, this would have been fine. Easy, in fact. John would not have thought twice about holding his best friend, keeping him warm as he tried to sleep, washed up on an island, as you do. There would have been no awkwardness, just doctorly and friendly concern.

Three years ago, he would have been happy just to know Sherlock was alive. Having him in his arms would have been an added bonus. It was something he had thought about in passing and dismissed just as quickly as a strange thought.

Two years ago on his stag night, John finally realised and acknowledged to himself that he was utterly and inescapably in love with Sherlock.

Two years ago, Sherlock left John's wedding early.

Two years ago, John watched his best friend and best man walk out, excused himself from dancing with his new wife and ran after Sherlock.

Two years ago, John and Sherlock had kissed with tear-soaked lips while a thumping bass beat out across the darkened lawn of the reception.

Two years ago on that darkened lawn, as John let Sherlock go, they both knew they would go on as before and never speak of this again.

One year ago, Mary was hit by a motorcycle coming around a corner. She died three days later of internal injuries.

Seven months ago, John moved back into Baker Street and every day since then, the wall these two idiots had built between themselves crumbled slowly. It wouldn't take much to knock it down completely.

And so, John held Sherlock as he leaned against him and tried to think doctorly and friendly thoughts. But, god, he was tired of this.

'You're thinking too much.' Sherlock leaned his head back onto John's shoulder. John felt the warmth of skin radiating through the cool, damp curls brushing his lips. He leaned forward the last half inch and buried his face in Sherlock's hair. 'And, now you're not thinking at all.'

John laughed and tightened his embrace. 'Yeah, well. We're stranded on an island having escaped a Somali pirate rust bucket. We're exhausted, hungry, cold and we have a long history of repressed attraction. I reckon I'm pretty much done with thinking right about now.'

Sherlock turned his head, 'Sure?' he asked.

The sun had long set leaving them in complete darkness but John felt his lips now bussing against Sherlock's forehead. He smiled. He was so tired of keeping up the facade for both of them, and this felt like being released from captivity.

'Actually, there's not a doubt in my mind at this point.'

Sherlock snorted, 'I look forward to future doubts then.'

'Oi! Don't be an arse.'

'I am an arse, John. Much like being a show off, it's what I do.' Sherlock pulled himself from John's arms and started clambering onto his lap.

'What the hell are you doing?' John attempted to wrangle the limbs currently flailing about in his face. 'Just sit on the ground and lean back.'

'This is far more comfortable.' Sherlock sat straddling John.

'This is categorically not more comfortable,' John grunted, recovering from an elbow in the stomach.

'Mmm, that's better,' Sherlock rumbled, wriggling unnecessarily.

'Maybe comfortable for you, but my legs are losing circulation.' John snaked his arms around Sherlock's waist. He ran his hands up and down Sherlock's back, feeling warm skin through the thin shirt.

'Mm, circulation is boring' came Sherlock's rumble, like a thousand year old glacier made of honey. He leaned in to nuzzle at John's neck and scraped his bottom teeth up his jawline.

'Je-hesus,' John breathed out. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so desperate for someone to rip his pants off. His hips bucked and his hands came down to steady Sherlock as he rocked back. His fingers splayed across the perfect globes of Sherlock's arse.

'Not that I want to derail whatever the hell this is, Sherlock, but I've never seen you like this. With anyone. Except for Janine and that was downright disturbing, even apart from the fact you were acting.'

Sherlock chuckled in John's ear. A sound like antique mahogany furniture creaking. 'Yes, you did seem quite put out by that.'

'It was bizarre to say the least,' said John as he pulled the back of Sherlock's shirt from his trousers. 'You had me fooled. And her,' John tucked his nose into Sherlock's neck and inhaled, smelling brine and sweat and sand.

'And jealous,' Sherlock ground his hips against John's erection. 'Don't forget I had you jealous as well,' he whispered before suckling on John's earlobe. 'An added bonus.'

John's grip on Sherlock's arse tightened as he lifted him up and deposited him on his back to lie beneath John. 'Was that some sort of payback for me getting married?' John ran his hands under Sherlock's shirt. His fingers bumping along sticky, sea-washed skin and skimming over hardened nipples.

Sherlock arched his back into John's touch. He ran his fingers roughly through John's hair and leaned up to nip at his lips.

'I needed Magnussen. And pretending is hardly the same as actually getting married.' John clasped the back of Sherlock's neck, feeling the soft curls over his knuckles. He steadied the detective's head, kissing him loudly again and again until John licked gently at Sherlock's wicked lower lip.

Sherlock pulled away. If John could see he would have seen Sherlock suck his lip into his mouth with the slightest of smirks. He would have seen lidded grey-blue eyes flutter ever so quickly, delicate lashes batting on blushing skin. This would have driven John into a frenzy of lust. As it was he did not see this and so waited patiently for Sherlock to say something.

'You okay?' John asked, running his thumb along the back of Sherlock's ear.

'Oh for god's sake, John. I'm a grown man, not a wilting flower. Could you stop asking if I'm okay every 2 minutes.' Sherlock then cleared his throat. As a serial throat-clearer, John recognised this one as the "confession preceder", as it is known in official circles. The clearing, however, was followed by silence.

John rolled his eyes. A futile gesture in the darkness but an outlet for himself. 'Look, you don't have to tell me anything but have you ever... you know?'

He felt Sherlock shrug. 'What? Have I what?'

John sighed. 'Sex. Sex, Sherlock. Or a relationship? Anything?'

'Yes.'

'Yes?!'

'Alright, there's no need to sound so surprised.'

'No, no it's just, you never seem interested is all. Married to your work, etc.' John paused. 'Hold on. When you say "yes", was there anything that wasn't fake or for a case?'

He felt Sherlock shift, his hold on John grew slightly tighter. John's stomach felt like it'd dropped down a well. 'Jesus. Please tell me you did not lose your virginity to a case.'

After a long pause, Sherlock said, 'No. If you are asking if I was brought to orgasm by a consenting party other than myself for a case, then, no.'

'So you're still a...' John began.

'It was for an experiment.'

'Oh for... You are by far the most infuriating person I know.' John rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder. 'Okay, let me refine my question. Have you ever had a romantic or sexual longing for anyone?'

'Are you sure that's how you want to phrase the question?' John could practically hear the smirk. He thought for a moment and decided to stick with it.

'Yep, that's my question. Go on.'

Sherlock sighed. He hugged John against him even tighter, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. 'Not really, no,' he said at last. 'Maybe. Probably not. I'm not sure.'

John smiled. The affection that washed over him for the man beneath him could've deluged a small city. He wondered why Sherlock's answer was more of a comfort than if he'd said yes or no.

'What about the Woman?' He felt Sherlock tense.

'Nothing sexual, no. Romantic? I'm not sure. Perhaps, probably not. She interested my mind.'

'O...kay.' John remembered well his jealousy even back then. Its intensity had shocked him. He had counted the Woman's texts. He'd fretted at Sherlock's fretting. When the Woman herself had so calmly and confidently told him that yes, he and Sherlock were a couple, the truth of it rocked his foundations. He felt it in his core and every cell of his body but denied it until his stag night when he couldn't even delude himself any longer.

They had been quiet for a few minutes. Each man lost in his own thoughts until Sherlock leaned up. He kissed John, almost tentatively, barely brushing their lips together. John responded and they breathed each other in gently until, like floodgates crashing open, John surged. His lips worked hard and clumsily over Sherlock's, tongue probing and massaging the other.

They rocked together slowly as they each pushed into the kiss, flagging erections returning as they aligned with each other. The friction of fabric the only barrier between them. Sherlock pulled away with a tiny whimper that he would deny making until the end of his days. Chest to chest each could feel the other's breath.

'Are y...,' John began.

'John, I swear, if you ask me again if I'm okay, I will embed small body parts into random bits of food for a year.' Sherlock fidgeted in John's arms.

John rolled his eyes. Another futile gesture in the dark. 'You really know how to ruin the mood don't you? What are you doing now? Stop wriggling.'

'Do something, John.' Sherlock spat out.

'Huh?'

'Do something. Touch something. You know what to do. I am acceding to your expertise in this area.'

John surged forward again, his hand wrapped around the back of Sherlock's neck. He kissed the detective hard and fast, feeling those plump lips yielding to every caress. They broke apart again, John's chest heaving with want.

'God, Sherlock,' he breathed. 'You do know I've never been with a man either, right? I can do you a prostate check or check for testicular abnormalities but that's not exactly sexy.'

Sherlock, growing impatient reached between them and began unbuttoning his own trousers. 'I'd say deliberating on the issue would not be counted as "sexy" either.' He shimmied his trousers and pants down just below his hips, his erection leaking against his own belly.

'Come on, John,' he whined as he started on John's fly as well. John raised himself up a little on his elbows to help Sherlock's hands as they busily pushed at the waistband of John's pants. The elastic rubbed down along his shaft, smearing a trail of pre-ejaculate as Sherlock wriggled the pants down.

Once free, John settled his hips back down, his pulsing cock shifting against Sherlock's. John swore as he felt the heat of the other man's hardness, his head hung down between his shoulders.

He heard a quiet 'oh' from Sherlock who brought his arms up beneath John's to wrap behind his back. John tried an experimental thrust of his hips, dragging hard hot flesh against hard hot flesh. He was rewarded with a low moan from Sherlock who bucked in response.

'Oh god, Sherlock,' John breathed as he continued thrusting, each movement bringing them both closer. He came close to a sob when Sherlock suddenly stilled and pushed him up.

'Wait, stop, John, please,' his voice strangely wavered.

'What is it? Are you okay?' John's arms shook as he took his weight off Sherlock.

Sherlock growled in annoyance. He sat up. 'Take yours off, John. Now.' John could hear him rustling about as he pulled off his trousers. John did the same, spitting out curses as the damp fabric clung to his socks, wasting precious seconds. He'd barely flung his pants aside when Sherlock was on him, manoeuvring to sit between John's legs, his own wrapped around John's waist. Sherlock tugged John's hips closer until they sat, their cocks almost kissing as they bobbed together.

'Oh,' was all John managed to say before Sherlock crashed their mouths together in a painful meeting of teeth and skin. They both drew back in pain.

'Sorry,' Sherlock said, before reaching for John and carefully drawing him closer. This kiss was gentler. Sherlock mimicking John, pressing, lightly sucking, licking. As they explored each other, John reached between them to grasp them both.

Sherlock drew away long enough to hiss, 'yes, do that.'

'Clearly I am,' John said and dragged his closed fist down slowly, foreskins shifting and wrinkling together - then he drew back up again, swiping the base of his thumb over both leaking heads.

'Fuck,' they both cursed together. John laughed, 'I've never heard you swear before.'

'I stubbed my toe that one Tuesday,' Sherlock snuck one hand down to join John's, not helping, just moving up and down with him.

'Yeah, I remember - ah god - clearly. It was - fuck, Sherlock - it was a Tuesday, for sure.' John sped his hand.

Sherlock's hips began thrusting erratically into his fist, countering John's movements, his cock sliding against John's.

'John. John,' he called weakly with every movement, 'Something's happening.'

John laughed again, hitching as he too could feel the pulling in of heat. 'Yeah, that'd be...'

'I know what - uh - it is. God, faster.' John's hand gripped tighter as both men breathed fast, hips stuttering against each other.

Sherlock was the first. His hips lifted and he cried out over John's head. John felt hot pulses hit his chest as he too succumbed, and came, his release joining Sherlock's as he slowed his hand to a gentle loose pull.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and snuggled close, still shaking. John snaked his arms around Sherlock, surreptitiously wiping his hands on his shirt as he stroked up and down his back.

'Well, that was,' John paused, 'erm... quite something.'

Sherlock hummed in agreement. He snuffled in the crook of John's neck. 'You could say that was "a long time coming". No pun intended, of course.'

John giggled. 'Now what?'

'I'd start with putting our pants back on and sleeping. Then possibly doing some more of this in the morning. I'd like to be able to see it. After that I think we'd both want a bit of a wash, so the sea is probably our best option. Then we...'

'I meant in general, for god's sake. We're stranded and we'll need fresh water at some point and a plan.'

'We'll be fine,' Sherlock let go and disentangled his legs from John's, searching about for his trousers. 'We're in the Atlantic, John, not the south Pacific. Not many desert islands around here. Going by the direction and speed we were sailing, I'd say we're somewhere in the Azores. If we follow the perimeter of the island we'll get to a town quite quickly.'

John pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. 'You let me scavenge for food.'

'You seemed hungry,' Sherlock shook out his trousers and pulled them on.

John patted about looking for his own clothes. 'I made a shelter, tried to light a fire. We could have gotten to a town in that time.'

'I thought you wanted to practice survival skills. You always yell at those people on that show. What's it called? Where they're all left on...'

'Survivor?'

'That's the one.'

John sighed again. He dressed himself and reached out to find Sherlock. 'Why don't we get some sleep and worry about this tomorrow.' He curled up behind Sherlock, who had already found the thickest tufts of grass to lie on, and draped his arm over Sherlock's hip.

'The Azores, ey?'

'Mmm,' Sherlock murmured sleepily, 'most likely.' He turned over and burrowed against John.

'Most people pay loads to holiday here. We just catch a lift on a pirate ship.'

'Mmm.'

'I really thought we'd need to make a giant S.O.S. in the sand or build a bonfire on the highest point or something you know? That would've been cool.'

'Mhmm.' John buried his nose in Sherlock's curls and kissed the top of his head. 'Okay, get some rest. I intend to do very naughty things to you in the morning.'

Sherlock snuffled against John's chest. John lay awake a little longer. His head whirled with all the possibilities, all the alternate pathways their lives could have taken. They could have been together sooner or none of this could have ever happened at all. He finally gave up and closed his eyes, happy that whatever the turning points had been, they had gotten them here in each other's arms where they belonged.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Turning Points' by Winklepicker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309465) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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